


A Complicated Pact

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Series: The Wings They Brand You With [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dragons, M/M, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 09:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10331411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: Five ways in which being dragon-shaped rocks, and one where the old model is perfectly adequate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It totally didn't even occur to me that the first title in this series was probably taken from MK Ultra's "Double Flame" until months and months later when I heard the song again. So, totally lacking a title for this, I pulled from the same song again.

**1\. visiting hours**

Bucky's stretched out on the couch with a book--a hardback, from the _library,_ because riling Stark up is hilarious--when Steve comes out of the bedroom with a slightly harried, slightly uncertain expression. He's dressed up a bit, but not meet-the-press sharp: a nice blue button-down and new jeans, hair freshly trimmed. Bucky arches a brow. It's not like Steve _has_ to keep Bucky informed of his schedule, but he usually does anyway, if only to keep Bucky's hoarding instincts in check. If Steve's got somewhere he's supposed to be today, it's news to Bucky.

"Nice duds," Bucky says, appreciative despite the prickle of unease that slinks down his spine. No one's going to snatch his Steve just because he's not there to keep watch--and if they try it, Steve's more than capable of looking out for himself. He _knows_ this. The part of him that wants to wrap Steve up tight and maybe burn a few Hydra villages to the ground just doesn't _care_.

"Thanks," Steve says with a sheepish smile, ducking his head a little, and fuck, he's using the _eyes_. And the _lashes_. What the hell has Steve gotten himself into now? "So, uh...I know it's short notice, but it's been a really quiet week, and there's been a cancellation at the hospital--a children's theater troupe was supposed to come through, but their tour bus broke down, and I told the hospital a while back that they could call me, so--"

"You're going to see the kids," Bucky finishes for him. _See?_ he tells his actual, honest-to-God lizard brain. Steve's going to the hospital, not making a giant target of himself for once. A bunch of sick kids aren't exactly a threat. The nurses on the other hand....

"Yeah," Steve says, eyes turning hopeful. "Want to come along?"

Bucky freezes. "I...don't think that's a great idea," he mutters, trying not to curl too obviously in on himself. Stark swears he has enough lawyers to throw at the problem if anyone ever outs Bucky as the Soldier, but that's not what's been keeping him off the street and out of the public eye. He may be getting a better handle on his instincts, but he still feels like a loose cannon on the best of days. Sticking him in a roomful of kids is just asking for trouble.

"Sure it is," Steve says, all gentle encouragement. "I mean, you used to like kids before...."

"Yeah," Bucky admits, not bothering to pretend like that's changed. "But I don't want to scare anybody, and you know how I get."

"What, overprotective? A complete pushover for anyone under four feet?"

"So that's why I liked you all those years," Bucky muses just to watch Steve's eyes flash.

"Bite me," Steve invites, and Bucky's on the verge of taking him up on it when Steve shakes his head. "C'mon, Buck. What's the worst that could happen? Other than you deciding to hoard the kids and claiming the hospital as your new den, which...uh."

Bucky snorts. The only way that's likely to happen is if Steve decides to move into the children's ward first, and there's no chance of that. Steve spent way too much time in hospitals as a kid to want to become a permanent resident now. "Fine," he says, snapping shut his book and stashing it between the couch cushions for safekeeping. "But if I give anybody nightmares, it's gonna be your fault."

Steve's still grinning all the way through check-in, the louse. Bucky hands over his shiny new ID when asked, signing his name in the visitors log and marveling a little that his hand knows the motions better than his brain. With his cap pulled down low over his eyes, he almost misses the receptionist's double-take when she actually looks at his name and matches it to his birthdate. It's the real one; the plan from the start has been to stick to the truth and just hope no one asks for all of it.

Bucky knows he looks kind of like a bum right now compared to Steve. He could have dressed up, but he prefers the comforting camouflage of layers, the accustomed weight of the slightly-battered jacket he's pretty sure he stole. He's a little surprised he isn't stopped the moment they step out of the elevators and into the children's ward, but he is keeping company with Captain America. They're probably just questioning Steve's taste in friends.

"Captain Rogers," a woman with a clipboard calls, smiling in relief. She's barely five feet herself, fifty if she's a day, greying and stocky. She could probably heft a kid under each arm and take off like a quarterback charging a goal post if the need arose. Her scrubs are covered with Black-eyed Susans; a knot of tension so familiar it's ignorable dissolves in the pit of Bucky's stomach. "Thank you so much for coming."

"It's my pleasure, Dr. Stern," Steve replies. Bucky tries not to grin; with her plump cheeks and dancing eyes, the doc hardly matches her name. "Hope you don't mind that I brought a friend. Bucky Barnes," Steve introduces him, pretending not to notice the doc's wide-eyed jolt of startlement. "Buck, this is Dr. Erica Stern."

"Pleased to meet you," Bucky says, sticking out his hand. She shakes it automatically, eyes searching his face, and seems to believe what she sees. The look she darts at Steve is full of questions, but Steve just smiles, ingenuous and unforthcoming, and she swallows back her curiosity with a brusque headshake.

"Right," she says. "Well. Most of the kids are waiting in the activity room, though there were a few who weren't up for being moved."

"We'll visit them separately," Steve promises.

"I've asked them to be on their best behavior, but meeting an Avenger...."

Steve laughs. "Are you kidding? I grew up with this lug's sisters," Steve assures her, cocking a thumb in Bucky's direction.

"Mobbed him every time he came over," Bucky explains, warmed by the memory. "Mostly fighting over who was going to get to marry him first."

"First, mind you, because his ma got tired of breaking up fistfights and told them they'd just have to share."

"They shook on it," Bucky adds solemnly. The doc barely muffles a guffaw behind her fist.

"Okay, then! Well, if you have any problems, there'll be staff to run interference. Any questions, just ask. We really appreciate you coming in--both of you," she says with a genuine smile for Bucky. "Let me show you where we're set up."

The instant the kids see Steve, they lose their collective minds, rushing him in a pack. Bucky steels himself not to react, but he needn't have bothered. One look at those wide-eyed faces, and he has the dopiest urge to hum, deep and low in his chest. Fuck. That's a croon, isn't it? God, he's embarrassing these days.

Steve beams right back at the kids, taking their enthusiasm in stride as they glom onto him, shouting questions and their names, exclaiming over this awesome thing he did or that. When he glances over at Bucky, his eyes are encouraging, expectant, but Bucky continues to hang back. These kids don't know him from Adam, mostly aren't old enough to be studying history in the first place. His name's not going to mean a thing to them, and even if it did, he's infinitely less cool than Captain America. He'll bide his time, step in if Steve needs a breather. Backup's what he's best at anyway.

There's a few kids who barely spare Steve a glance at first, glued to the windows and trying to find a good angle to peer between the skyscrapers to their left. Two of them give up with a sigh, turning away and brightening philosophically, as if Steve will do as a consolation prize. One stays put, nearly tipping out of her wheelchair as she sits with her face mashed to the glass. Trying to think what's over there that could possibly be better than a visit from Captain America, he realizes the Tower's off that way and grins.

"Keeping watch for Iron Man?" he asks as he strolls over to join her.

She's a tiny thing, skin and bones, blond hair gone straw-like in a way that's far too familiar. The sass is familiar too; she wrinkles up her nose and gives him a lofty sniff, blue eyes pitying. "No way," she scoffs. "Everyone's seen Iron Man. But we heard the Avengers have a _dragon_. Ben says he's seen it, but he came in from another floor, and the windows face differently there."

Bucky blinks, rocking back on his heels. She actually seems disappointed. "And you're not scared?" he has to ask, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. "I mean, it's a dragon. You know. Big, scaly, teeth."

"Dragons are _cool_ ," he's informed with unshakeable conviction. "And anyway, it's a friendly dragon if it belongs to the Avengers."

Bucky chuckles, casting a sidelong glance at Steve. "Well, I wouldn't say it belongs to them." Feeling eyes on him, Steve looks over and lights up, the quirk of his mouth fond. "Maybe just to one."

"Is it true Captain Rogers rides it into battle?"

"Ha! Nah, it's more like joyriding," he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Punk's too obvious in a fight as it is."

She smirks back at him, and it's clear he's got a kindred spirit here from the wholehearted agreement on her face.

He has to concentrate on not breathing too deeply, because she smells of exhaustion and old pain and the too-sweet smell of lingering illness, and it breaks his heart a little to know there's nothing he can do.

Only...maybe there sort of is.

He glances around, marks Steve's location and that he's led the kids off towards a cluster of plastic tables to set them up with paper and drawing tools. The staff are hanging back, keeping a weather eye on the kids but well out of the way. The ceilings are a little low for his tastes, but they're no worse than the ones at the Tower, and he knows he fits there.

"You really wouldn't be scared?" he asks one more time, knowing she can't speak for the other kids, but what the hell. They've got a knight in shining armor to protect them, even if Steve left the shield at home.

She shakes her head fiercely, though her smile is resigned.

Watching her eyes go huge and awed and _grateful_ as he shifts seamlessly between shapes is worth the pandemonium that ensues: the screaming nurses, the shouting kids, the bone-deep conviction he's about to get climbed like a jungle gym. He knows how this goes, though--Stark made him watch the movie _three times_ \--so he drops his head and waits for her to reach out one shaky hand to rest it on his nose.

He's fully trained, thank you very much, so he just croons at her--hums, damn it--when she bursts into tears above a blinding grin.

**2\. lazy mornings**

The sound is distant, muffled, like it's coming from a million miles away. It's a voice, he's pretty sure, one that fills him with a warm feeling of homecoming and safety. He should probably pay attention to it, because he's pretty sure it's calling his name.

"Buck? C'mon, Buck. Wake up already."

Or then again, no. Clearly the voice at his back has nothing sensible to say.

"Bu-u-uck. Jeez, you lump. You said you'd come running with me and Sam today, remember?"

Nope, he doesn't remember that at all. Who the hell is Buck, anyway? Clearly the voice is talking to someone else.

Something shakes his foot, so he mashes his face further into a pillow that smells fantastic. Just like the voice, in fact. Snuffling a little, he rubs his cheek against the fabric with a sleepy growl. It's not half as nice as skin, but he's been cruelly abandoned to a too-energetic voice that has bizarre notions of _leaving_ the bed, so he'll take what he can get.

The voice snorts. Grasps fabric. Where the hell did the blanket go.

"Buck."

A hand at his shoulder rolls him over onto his back. He flops his arm out bonelessly, his knuckles just brushing a muscular thigh. His fingers twitch, curl, and find purchase at the bend of a knee. Instinct sends them wandering, up and up, to slide under cool, loose cotton. He wants to tug, pull all that warm skin down on top of him. That would be the _best blanket_.

"Okay," the voice warns, amused, "last chance before I drag you out by your heels."

What? Drag him out? Hell, no. Voice is crazy.

Letting his bones go loose, he relaxes inside his skin and grows, and _grows _, filling the room with his bulk. The voice yelps as his wings unfurl to either side, the bed groaning loudly before collapsing onto a pile of almost-good-enoughs. His tail spools out to smack into the wall and then climb it, braced in the corner, and he slews his long neck around until his head nudges up against the legs of the real treasure in the room, his hind legs and forepaws curled to his belly. He settles with a sigh.__

__"Oh, for Pete's sake," his pushy voice huffs. There's laughter in it, though. "You're cleaning this up, you know."_ _

__He hums, shifting a little to get comfortable. The wooden bed frame finishes shattering, broken sides sliding down the disordered pile of his appropriated weapons to fetch up on the floor. Yeah, he'll definitely have to do something about that. Later. His voice has definite ideas about the best way to sleep on a hoard._ _

__A warm hand settles between his closed eyes, and mmm. That's nice. That's _so_ nice. His Stevie is--_ _

__\--out the door, still laughing under his breath, and greeting Wilson._ _

__"Where's Barnes?" Wilson asks, a hint of concern in his voice. "I heard a crash."_ _

__"Eh," Steve says with an audible smile. "He's sleeping in."_ _

__Yeah, well. He is a dragon. He's _supposed_ to sleep on treasure._ _

__Too bad his is a morning person._ _

____

**3\. new tricks**

Bucky's not sure who the goons attacking the Tower are actually with. He's not sure they know either; they're remarkably uncoordinated, like maybe two different groups had spotted the perfect opening and went for it at the same time. Doesn't say much about the home defenses, but it sure makes the bad guys easy to round up.

He's cleaning out the stairwell a few floors down from the penthouse, thinking they must be close to wrapping things up, when he hears Miz Potts give a sharp little half-scream of shock.

He doesn't hesitate, bolting up the last three flights and flinging enemy agents aside so hard they don't get up again. He knows he's worrying for nothing; JARVIS gave him the scoop on Miz Potts and her firepower--pun intended--the very first day, just in case he'd been thinking of trying anything funny with their resident civilian. Bucky's not sore about it. There's all those stories, after all, and even he hadn't understood it at first, that what's burned into his lizard brain isn't 'steal the princess', it's 'rescue the princess'. And hell, she isn't even his, doesn't need any damn rescuing. That's just how strong the instinct is.

He rips the security door off its hinges when it doesn't slide open fast enough, sees Stark in his Iron Man suit give the balcony door the same treatment out of the corner of his eye, but mostly he's occupied with skidding to a stop so he can stare properly.

Miz Potts' summery silk blouse is charring along her shoulders and over the swell of her breasts, anywhere it rests too solidly against her. Her arms and legs and the skin bared by her swooping neckline are lit from within, like lava glowing up from under a cooler crust. Her hair flies around her from the heat she's putting off, and when she opens her mouth, it's not to deliver a threat or an ultimatum.

The Tower's princess _breathes fire_ , and it's the most amazing thing Bucky's ever seen.

"Oh, thank fuck," Stark breathes out as he glides over to knock the last two goons' heads together, his visor retracting as Miz Potts straightens out of her furious stance with a gasp. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Miz Potts says quickly, tugging on a bright, false smile. She shivers a little and tries to cover it up by fanning her face with a faintly-trembling hand. Bucky takes a step forward. "Just...I wasn't expecting an invasion today, is all."

Another. Miz Potts glances at him guardedly, something brittle in her eyes.

Bucky holds out his hand.

"Wait, what?" Stark demands, throwing his arms out wide between them. "No way, Barnes. Whatever you're thinking, no. _My_ princess. You've got your own. Scram."

Bucky would be a little more concerned about that if Stark were actually a dragon, if his flailing antics weren't making Miz Potts smile.

"Did you need something, James?" she asks, slipping around Tony to take Bucky's offered hand and ignoring Tony's outraged squawk. Hers shakes for only a moment before her grip firms.

He cocks his head at the elevator, smiling with his eyes. The balcony's nice and all, but it's not big enough for a dragon.

Stark stomps belligerently after them without stepping out of his suit, grumbling even after Bucky lets Miz Potts go and steps clear to transform. Miz Potts just tips her head back to watch him curiously, though she huddles in on herself a little as he takes a deep breath, opens his mouth.

He doesn't need much fire for this, just a spark and the natural humidity of his breath. It's not a smoke ring he blows out--there's nothing in his mouth to burn--but the thick loop of steam hangs visible in the air for a long moment before the wind snatches it away.

Miz Potts has a real nice laugh she trots out for parties and interviews, but the helpless, sputtering giggle she breaks out with then is miles better. It's maybe a shade hysterical, but he gets it. He remembers every time he looked down the barrel of his rifle and thought, _I can't do this_ , and pulled the trigger anyway. Just like Miz Potts, he's never particularly wanted to fight; the fights still find him anyway.

"Wait," she says as she swallows laughter down. "I think--"

Her first attempt is more of a cloud and leaves her mouth bone-dry, but when she works up the spit for a second attempt, her steam ring is better than his.

"Where the hell...?" Stark asks, perplexed. Bucky's never seen Miz Potts smoke, now that he thinks about it; a lot of modern girls don't.

"My grandfather," Miz Potts says with a nostalgic smile. "My grandmother used to say he should have married his pipe. He was also a huge Tolkien fan."

Stark laughs, shaking his head. He's distracted by Miz Potts, but Miz Potts is distracted from the fight downstairs, and that's what Bucky was aiming for.

Stark eventually remembers to spare Bucky a glare, pointing two fingers first at his own eyes and then at Bucky's, but Bucky just snorts. Just because there's a tower and a princess and a dragon, those things don't have to be connected. There's a dragon and a knight too, but that doesn't guarantee a fairytale ending. Bucky's pretty okay with that, as it happens.

He'll still take the happily ever after bit, if it's all the same. He figures by now they deserve a bit of happiness, each and every one of them.

**4\. nightmares**

Bucky's not sure what wakes him at first: a noise from the hall, or maybe an explosion from the workshop, one loud enough to defeat the Tower's excellent soundproofing. It's something wrong, out-of-place--has to be, because he wakes knowing exactly where he is, with Steve's familiar bulk pinned under him, his head tucked under Steve's jaw.

He feels more than hears the next hitched gasp of breath. A faint, hurt sound squeezes through Steve's throat as his arm tightens around Bucky's back. Nightmare, then, and maybe it'd be smarter to slip free of Steve's embrace and wake him from a safe distance, but Bucky's never been overly concerned with his own safety where Steve's concerned.

He's still got enough sense not to call Steve's name. He gives in instead to the croon that wants to escape, keeps it soft and deep and low, and lets that hopefully-soothing rumble rouse Steve by slow stages instead of jerking him back all at once.

Steve breathes in sharply and freezes, holding that snatched lungful for a solid three beats before rolling half-over, curling into Bucky and wrapping his other arm tightly around Bucky's shoulders. Bucky doesn't protest, even though he's going to be feeling that in the morning.

"You okay?" he asks instead, voice raspy with sleep.

The Steve he remembers would have nodded fiercely, pulled away and put on a brave face. The Steve of now shakes his head mutely and doesn't let go.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Steve starts to shake his head, but then he hesitates. "Train," he mutters unwillingly, almost embarrassed, like he's got some crazy idea that Bucky's got dibs on the trauma of that, that his own memories of that day shouldn't be bad enough to keep him up at night. In Steve's place, Bucky would've given up on sleep entirely.

"You know that's not gonna happen again," he says carefully. "I mean, even if I did fall."

Steve sighs. "I know," he says into Bucky's hair, arms relaxing slowly. "I just...I just keep _seeing_ it."

Bucky hums sympathetically. He doesn't want to admit that he dreams about it too, because lately his own dreams have changed. He still falls, but then his windmilling arms grab air and _catch_ it as they melt into wings. It's a certainty he knows bone-deep, and he'd give anything to give that same peace of mind to Steve.

"Wanna go up to the roof?" It's probably not his best idea; Steve's had plenty of opportunities to see and touch solid evidence that Bucky's gravity-proof these days. Still, a little more positive reinforcement couldn't hurt, right?

Steve huffs a breath of laughter, strained but genuine. "Sure," he says, resting his brow against the crown of Bucky's head. "That sounds like a plan."

It doesn't really, not to Bucky, only maybe...maybe he's got one of those too.

**5\. rewriting history**

"So you're in?" Bucky asks for what has to be the fifth time, only he needs to be one hundred percent sure before he takes his idea to Steve. He's probably only going to get one shot at this, and while he's phenomenally good at what he does, these two share a skill set that puts his own to shame.

Barton shrugs. "You have my bow," he says, because of course a guy whose codename is Hawkeye would fucking _own_ the rest of his nicknames.

"Mm," Natasha hums thoughtfully. Her smile does reach her eyes, and that's the part that should terrify anyone with an ounce of self-preservation. "There are a few places I wouldn't mind revisting myself."

Bucky's pretty sure he's going to be asked to burn a few villas, not villages, to the ground, but what are friends for?

Steve goes quiet, still as stone when Bucky puts the plan to him, but he sits there on the couch with his elbows braced on his knees, one hand gripping tightly to the other, and listens all the way through. His eyes never leave Bucky's face.

"Will it help?" he asks, voice held ruthlessly steady.

Bucky doesn't know. He hopes so. If he'd been in Steve's shoes, seen what he'd seen, and had the chance to _un_ see it, he'd jump at the chance. Only Steve's not thinking about himself; that's always been Bucky's job, and he knows Steve won't go through with it for his own sake. So he makes himself think, really think about what it would mean and surprises even himself.

"Yeah," he says with a hint of disbelief, eyes wide. "Yeah, I think it really will."

Steve nods tightly. It's as good as a promise.

Bucky makes the travel arrangements, but he leaves it to Natasha to make sure their presence on such potentially sensitive soil goes unchallenged. Clint treats the whole trip like a surprise vacation, lingering over room service and picking up every tourist brochure he sees, but he's also brought his heaviest bow, the no-frills workhorse for when he's got a job to do and no armies to fight.

Steve just puts one foot grimly in front of the other, following wherever Bucky leads him. If he recalls any of the places they stop from decades past--the little café that's miraculously still standing, the tavern where Dum Dum struck out spectacularly with three waitresses in succession--no sign of recognition makes it onto the stiff mask of his face.

Bucky remembers what it was like to be cold, but mostly in relation to Steve. Much like the skinny body he'd curled around in the dead of winter, it's a thing he left behind in Brooklyn and somehow never got back.

"Holy fuck, it's cold," Clint bitches as he steps out into the snow, reaching back into their rented car for his insulated coat.

"We are in the mountains," Natasha points out. The coat she pulls on looks too stylish to be practical, but Bucky knows her. Remembers her, now. It's a point of pride with her to let no one forget where she comes from, and she'll wear clichés like ornaments in friendly reminder if she's in the mood. A good Russian girl, bothered by a little cold? Never. And never mind that her sleek overcoat offers the finest in thermal protection. Pride's one thing, but Natasha's not _dumb_.

Steve puts his heavy jacket on when Bucky hands it to him, but his eyes are on the peaks above, his mind a million miles and seventy years away.

Bucky could fly them where they need to go and be there in minutes, but he's never taken anyone up but Steve, and the idea of someone else literally riding him is just...it's weird. So weird. There's also a part of him that doesn't want to play his hand too soon, that tells him he needs to let this play out as close as can be to how it went before.

So they march, Steve in the lead, up half-cleared trails Bucky finds he could navigate blindfolded, the way they're burned into his mind. He misses the weight of his pack, his hands feeling bereft without a rifle to cradle. The other two don't speak, and the soft crunch of their footsteps at Bucky's back is familiar enough that he has to check the urge to drop back, see how the men are doing.

When they reach the lookout point where Bucky had spent his last free moments on solid ground, as himself, his breath catches unexpectedly in his throat. The white peaks, the far-off glitter of the river below, the spindly ribbon of the train trestle: it all looks exactly the same. The only difference is that there's a steel plaque on a small pedestal waiting at the top. It lists dates and times, a few dry facts, carefully avoiding national bias. They'd been allies, but unless they were in France or Britain, no other countries had much wanted to claim them for their monuments.

Steve doesn't even glance at it, and Bucky's watching him pretty closely. He's staring at the trestle, and this is where it maybe falls apart. The track's still in use, Europe being far more attached to its train system than America, but even Natasha hadn't been able to find them a train willing to let them jump on top of it. Instead she'd gotten them the next best thing: an ironclad schedule and precise windows of exactly when the tracks will be clear. Natasha's story about Captain Rogers wanting some closure is pretty good, has opened a lot of doors.

Clint looks at Bucky, looks at Steve, and silently gets to work, opening up his bow case and readying one of the special arrows Stark had fabricated for the occasion. Stark had made exactly two, and Clint had grumbled, mock-insulted, for days.

Barton always makes it look easy, even when he's firing off a shot that streaks across an impossible distance even before miniature jets kick in to carry it the rest of the way, a spidersilk-strong line spooling out in its wake. The propulsion system gives the arrow enough force to hammer it deep into the rock when it hits, and though Bucky can't see it in action, he knows the cessation of movement has activated a subroutine that drills the shaft in even deeper.

Clint gives the line a testing tug, then a more solid one. Nothing shifts, so he takes the free end and drills it into the rock at their backs. He attaches a pair of zip line handlebars next, because while Bucky could just fly them over--could have flown the line over, too--that'd defeat the purpose of having hiked up here in the first place.

Steve needs to see Bucky, the Bucky he grew up with, the Bucky who fell, to see and touch the day where it all went wrong so he'll know in his bones it'll never happen again.

Bucky lets Steve go first, mostly because he's not sure Steve won't yank him back if he tries to go without him. It's safer this way anyway. If something does go wrong with the line, Bucky's already got his eyes glued to the only thing that matters. And it...helps, seeing Steve's broad back there in front of him, knowing he's not alone.

He hadn't expected it to hit him this hard, but skimming through the air in his old, familiar, _tiny_ body brings it all back. The bone-deep exhaustion and the ice in his stomach that was all from worry and fear, his body long since begun its slow change into something both less and more than human. His knuckles sing as he clutches the handlebars, even though he has zero reasons to fear the drop. He keeps wanting to glance right for a train that's not coming, even though he doesn't really want to see it if he misses his mark--and it's not coming, it's not, because they finally made it to the future, even if they've got to work so damn hard to leave the past behind.

Steve drops first, landing on the sturdy ties of the trestle and turning instantly to watch as Bucky closes the gap between them. He reaches out a steadying hand as Bucky lands, and Bucky allows it with good grace, Steve's hand on his right shoulder a comfortable anchor. Even though he knows their friends are watching, it feels like they're the only people in the world.

Steve's face is pale, and it doesn't seem like he wants to let go of Bucky at all.

"You okay?" Bucky asks, ready and willing to call the whole thing off, even after having come all this way. He only wants to help Steve, not make it worse.

"No," Steve admits, looking strangely hopeful for all that. "But I will be."

That's all Bucky needs to hear.

Pulling gently free of Steve's hold, he takes a step back, then another, and another, and then--

He's dreamed about this for so many years, waking and sleeping, in nightmares and the strange, new, wistful things that paint a life that could have happened _if only_. The wind catches him as he pushes off and arcs gently back, buoys up his outstretched arms and legs and whips his hair around his face. Looking up he sees Steve dart to the edge of the trestle, leaning out too far with eyes too wide. His hair gets in his eyes then, briefly obscuring his vision, and when it clears--

His heart lurches hard in his chest, skipping a beat before it starts to thunder in sheer panic.

Before Bucky can yell at him to stop, wait, just _wait_ , Steve squares his shoulders, braces himself, and jumps right after him.

Bucky doesn't hesitate another instant. He lets the change take him, clothes shredding around him for the first time in months because he can't spare the split-second it'll take to bend reality in quite that way. The single, driving thought in his head is _Catch Steve_ , and he's got next to no room to do it in between the trestle supports on one side and how closely Steve followed him.

He twists over sinuously as his flesh expands, leaving his wings furled for now. His eyes never leave Steve as he keeps his nose pointed at the figure plummeting after him. The air fights him as he reorients himself, belly to the heavy lattice of wood and steel, back to the open air, but he's stronger than the elements. Flinging out his wings with a mighty _crack_ , he drives them out and down, scooping air to drive him up, straight up.

Steve does absolutely nothing to slow his fall, but the idiot reaches out as Bucky shoots up to meet him. It's anyone's guess who catches who as Bucky snags him out of the air, crushing Steve to his plated chest with one crooked forepaw as Steve latches on tight as best he can. Bucky's too big in this form to really get a grip on from that angle, no matter how wide Steve spreads his arms, but it doesn't matter. Bucky's got him. Bucky's always going to have him when he falls.

That doesn't mean he's not half-blind with terror and fury when they make it back to the train tracks above.

His wings thrash the air as he settles down awkwardly on his hind feet, his forelegs still crushing Steve to his chest. The spaces between the ties are too wide for Bucky to just drop him; if he loses Steve _between_ the supports, his wings won't do him a bit of good. The minute Steve's safely on his feet, Bucky transforms again, shaking but not with the cold. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he shouts. He's dimly aware that he probably doesn't paint a very intimidating picture: a wild-eyed naked man whose hands are balled into trembling fists. He just doesn't care.

Steve looks at him with no matching anger and no remorse. "What I always wished I'd done," he says.

"You fucking idiot! What good would that have done, other than handing Hydra both of us on a silver platter?" Except...Jesus. _Jesus_. They never would have hit the ground, would they? As scared as Bucky had been for himself, he'd have moved heaven and earth if he'd thought Steve was in danger too, his instincts too strong even back then to ever let that happen. Of course he can't hold that against Steve, not when Steve didn't know, couldn't know--hell, Bucky hadn't known either--but the realization shocks him out of his anger in time to see Steve's earnest expression twist.

"They'd have searched for me," Steve says bitterly, guiltily, ducking his head like he'd like to hide behind the bangs he'd had when he was just a little guy.

"Aw, hell," Bucky grumbles, closing the distance between them and wrapping Steve up in both arms, hauling him tight to Bucky's chest once more. "You can't know that," he chides, hooking his chin over the crown of Steve's head when Steve buries his face in Bucky's neck, making himself small.

"They did, though," Steve mumbles, voice choked, his arms all but crushing the breath from Bucky. "Seventy years, Buck. Howard never let anyone give up. It's not _fair_."

He doesn't tell Steve that life isn't fair. Who else knows that better? He just holds on tight, crooning deep in his chest, until something in Steve relaxes. He sure as hell hopes this has laid a few of Steve's demons to rest, because seeing Steve fall when he'd already...when he'd already let...he'd let Steve fall once....

"Oh," he says quietly, shifting to press his lips to Steve's hair. Back then, on the helicarrier, he hadn't known what he could do, hadn't even known Steve, not really. Just his scent, the conviction that this person was _his_ and the rage that what was his was fighting that...until suddenly he wasn't. He'd been lost, confused, but when instinct tugged his leash, he'd jumped without hesitation. He's had that to comfort him all this time, but Steve hasn't. Not until today.

"Mm?" Steve asks, resting comfortably against him.

"Punk," Bucky says on a heavy sigh, fondness replacing residual anger.

Bucky shifts again to fly them back to the others, going slow because he's without his usual harness. Steve insists on giving up his coat when Bucky changes back, but he's not particularly bothered by his nakedness. It's nothing the other two haven't seen before, and between Hydra and the army, he's lost nearly every scrap of modesty he ever had.

It's possible it bothers the others, though, because Clint makes a weird noise into his fist, not quite a gasp or a cough or a smothered laugh, though the way his eyes are dancing suggests it could be the last. Bucky narrows his eyes when Clint does it again.

"Sorry," Clint says, completely insincere. "Had the hiccups."

"Hic," Natasha agrees, smiling like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

Steve flushes hotly, and Bucky's mouth twitches. Right. Stark had made him watch _that_ movie _five_ times. Once he got past the whole 'entombed in ice' thing, he'd actually liked it just fine.

Hiccup's mom reminds him of Sarah.

**+1. homecoming**

They're not far from the tower, heading back on foot from lunch at a little deli Sam discovered the other day, when someone on the sidewalk just ahead stops dead in their tracks, causing a small pileup. Bucky glances up sharply as Steve goes tense beside him, but it's just some fresh-faced kid, maybe twenty if he's a day, and his dropped jaw and enormous eyes don't exactly scream enemy agent.

"Sargent Barnes?" the kid asks uncertainly, strangled voice a hair too high to match his big frame. The small knot of people still waiting at his back--young, all of them, decidedly fit, with close-cropped hair and the tell-tale outline of dog tags under their shirts when they aren't out on display--do comical double-takes.

"Yes?" Bucky replies, deciding to go out on a limb. That's the plan, after all. Don't deny, just don't explain. He knows he'll have to eventually, but he trusts that Stark's people will have the situation well in hand when that day arrives.

"Holy shit. Is this real?"

"Thank you for your service?" their lone female prompts her friend, poking him none-too-subtly in the shoulder from behind.

"How is that even remotely adequate?" the first kid breathes, still staring at Bucky the way small children stare at Captain America, like he's singlehandedly enough to renew their faith in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny as well. It's a little bit mortifying, but something about the kid's unthinking sass reminds him of Stark, both of them. It pulls a lopsided grin from Bucky, and that seems to give the others courage enough to speak up as well.

"Wow. We read about you--"

"Of course we read about him, he's _American history_ \--"

"God, I can't believe...holy _shit_."

"Hey, have you seen the comics?" There's a shit-eating grin on that one, but it's the kind that invites him to share in the joke.

"Have you seen the _Bucky Bears_? My gram left me hers--I think she had the biggest crush."

"Hell, _I_ had the biggest crush." That wasn't the girl. "Um."

Steve and Bucky crack up in unison, and Bucky doesn't miss the way the kids all relax when Steve throws an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close. "Sorry," Steve says, completely unrepentant. "You're about ninety years too late."

"It's my birthday." That _was_ the girl, and she elbows back just as hard without taking her eyes off them when someone tries to shush her.

"Wow," the first kid says, slowly shaking his head. Bucky's not sure he's even blinked once. "You made it back."

Bucky's chuckles die away, but his smile doesn't fade. It sounds like such a simple thing, but it's not. Not to these kids, and not to him, even before the whole ordeal with Hydra. He and Steve are a messy kind of fairytale, rewritten and a little subversive, but this telling belongs only to their fellow soldiers: they're the ones that come back, every time, even after hope is gone.

Bucky shrugs, careful not to dislodge Steve's arm. "Had something worth coming back for, didn't I?"

It's a little weird to be looked at like a hero again, by these kids, by _Steve_ , but if he's honest, it's not all that unfamiliar.

No matter the year, no matter where they are, the look in Steve's eyes has never changed.

**Author's Note:**

> I am no longer making blood sacrifice to my keyboard! Hooray! ...I have just fucked up my shoulder to the point where I have no grip strength in my left hand. D: I hate my job, guys, seriously. But I can type in small doses again, thank god. More fic will follow.


End file.
